


The Devil in the Details

by Artyphex



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Established Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Established Relationship, I think that covers everything, M/M, Minor Beelzebub/Gabriel (Good Omens), Post-Canon, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-04
Updated: 2019-10-07
Packaged: 2020-10-10 01:14:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20519546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Artyphex/pseuds/Artyphex
Summary: The world has been saved. The people on it are happy and summer has come again. An angel and a demon have built a life together, and Heaven and Hell want their revenge.





	1. Prologue

The existence of Purgatory was a phenomenon that deeply irritated both Heaven and Hell. 

It was the natural result of Heaven and Hell having such strict entrance requirements on each side and the ones they turned away having nowhere to go but an undefined in-between that had inevitably turned into a realm of its own. Rumor said that souls could escape Purgatory and enter Heaven, this is true in theory, but it had not happened even in the oldest resident's memory. 

It should be noted that if it’s possible to ascend from Purgatory, it is equally possible to descend. If that is where one is most inclined. 

In the meantime, it robbed both Heaven and Hell of perfectly good souls. 

Its presence was tolerated by each organization for two reasons. The first being they had no way of actually getting rid of it, and the second being it could be used on the rare occasion the leaders of Heaven and Hell had to meet on equal footing.

Purgatory was shockingly beautiful but unmoving. It was the same mountain Dante had described and now spends his unending days climbing, and on this mountain, it is early dawn on a just chilly enough to be bothersome day. It had been so for the last six-millennia, and nothing showed any signs of change. It’s stagnant, Purgatory, nothing much happens here.

Then the angels came.

The souls scattered into the mountain and hid. When you’ve gotten so used to stillness, the arrival of anything interesting is terrifying. If you saw what they saw, you’d have run too. Whether angel or demon did not matter to the souls of Purgatory. They’d never seen angels before. Many of them were only now learning they existed. 

One angel descended from the peak of the mountain, its wings so white they cut through the dawn grey as a ship cuts through sheets of ice. The other ascended from the base, its wings so black they cast night on land where the sun never sets. 

They met in the center of the mountain. As much of a “center” as they could define in a place without definition. 

The angel stepped forward. The demon did not move. 

The angel smiled. “Hello,” he said, “What’s all this about?”

The demon, the flies buzzing around its head the only sound for miles, said, “I want to know about your Principality.” 

“I’m afraid,” he began, a glint in his eye. Violet eyes which would have been beautiful on anyone else. “You’ll have to specify  _ which one. _ ” 

“Aziraphale,” the demon said. The “Z” in the name drawn out into a long buzz. 

“Right,” The angel said. His smile grew. It was the corporate smile of someone who hated the world they lived in.  _ “That one. _ ”

“Tell me about him.” 

“We have him under observation,” he said matter of factly. “Now, if you have no further questions I’m afraid our business is done.” 

The angel turned his back on the demon.

“No,” the demon ordered. “That won’t work.” 

The angel stopped, turning back around to face the demon, his hands clasped tight in front of him. 

“Your angel made me look like a fool in front of my entire court,” the demon said. 

“Unfortunate.” 

_ “ _ I want my unholy right,” the demon growled.

“Which is?” The angel asked.

“Revenge.” 

“Mhm,” The angel said, walking closer than was comfortable to the demon. They were smaller than the angel. Significantly so. They did not move. “What about your operative? Crowley? Is it?”

The demon did not break their eyes from the angel’s violet ones, but they made a sound like a thousand angry flies. 

“He attacked me, and my associates in our home,” he said as if explaining to a very small tantrum-prone child. “Where’s our  _ holy right? _ ”

It took a moment for the demon to respond. Some of the braver souls of Purgatory peeked out with curiosity. 

The demon said, “Have it then.” 

For the second time in six thousand years, the angel was surprised. “Would you care to explain?”

“Demon Crowley’s earthly form,” they began, “Is yours.” The next words out of the demon’s mouth were spoken like they had a foul taste. “To do with as you will” 

The angel looked intrigued.

“His soul belongs to  _ me, _ ” reminded the demon. 

“I don’t remember saying it didn’t,” assured the angel. 

“There’s a condition.”.

“Of course,” the angel’s corporate smile returned. “Demons always come with  _ conditions _ .” 

“I want your angel,” said the demon.

The angel chuckled. “I’m afraid I don’t-” 

“You  _ know  _ what I’m asking.” 

The angel allowed his tight smile to fade. Taking on an unmasked, unrestrained, and frighteningly natural calm. 

“You’re asking me to deal with the devil.” 

The demon smiled. “Not the devil,” they said. “Me.”

The angel raised one eyebrow, an impressed expression on his face. “You’ve thought about this.”

“I do a lot of that.” 

The demon reached out their hand. 

“We’re agreed then?” 

The angel paused. Closed his violet eyes. Nodded a slow, thoughtful nod. 

He took their hand. “Agreed.”

The angel and the demon stepped back.

“I do look forward to working with you, Beelzebub,” the angel said, “It’s been far too long.” 

“Hasn’t been long enough, Gabriel,” the demon said. 

The angels vanished, they did not disappear, they simply were no longer there. Like they’d never been there at all. Taking whatever light or dark they’d brought with them, and the souls of Purgatory crept out to greet their neverending dawn. 


	2. Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley prepares for their anniversary evening as Aziraphale receives a strange visitor.

“I need a reservation,” Crowley said into his phone. He leaned against the table in his study, a light sound of rain tapping on his window. 

The operator asked for when. Crowley responded with a flat, “Tonight.” 

The operator laughed. 

“Really? Not possible…” Crowley blinked. “Check again.” 

The operator scoffed, then paused, then gave a confused affirmative response. 

“Always a good idea to check twice isn’t it?” Crowley said, “Be there tonight.” He hung up the phone. 

It was, according to Aziraphale, their one-year anniversary. He’d insisted they eat at the Ritz and do other “special” things afterward. Like watch a romantic movie. Or decorate the bed with rose petals. 

When he’d first brought it up, Crowley hadn’t understood the idea at all.

“What’s one year?” Crowley had said. They’d been sitting in the main room of Aziraphale’s bookshop on either side of his sofa. Crowley was running his finger along the rim of his empty wine glass, producing a high pitched tune.

“It’s tradition!” Aziraphale insisted.

This “tradition” to do something “special” for an anniversary felt so benign. They did that every day, why all the fuss over a calendar date? 

“You want more attention?” Crowley asked, “Is that it?” He leaned across the sofa and kissed Aziraphale on the corner of his mouth, the line of his jaw, and the side of his neck. 

“It’s not that,” Aziraphale said, as calmly as if Crowley were still sitting on the other side of the sofa. “It sounds  _ nice _ .” 

Crowley pulled away from his neck and looked at Aziraphale, leaning all his weight on him. Aziraphale had one hand resting lazily on his hip.

“We don’t have to do it next year,” Aziraphale assured, “but I want to try it.”

Crowley sighed. “Alright, angel,” he said. 

Aziraphale kissed him on the forehead, and Crowley responded with a kiss on his lips. They’d spent the rest of the night like that, whilst drinking wine and discussing historically inaccurate portrayals of royal figures. 

Not much had really  _ changed  _ between him and Aziraphale in theory. They had their long talks and duck feedings at Saint James, they just did so now while Aziraphale linked his arm with Crowley’s and called him things like  _ “darling”, “dearest”, “love.”  _ Crowley still called him  _ “angel”  _ though in more intimate moments it had a  _ “my”  _ in front of it and meant something different. Or it was more likely it  _ always  _ meant that and only now could either of them admit it. 

What changed everything was that Crowley loved Aziraphale, and was free to feel it. He had for a long time, but it almost frightened him when he finally let it loose, demons aren’t meant to feel such things.

Yes, it was one year, but it had been a long year. Long in the best way. Like a child’s years are long. Everything new and unexplored with so much to discover in one day. 

He smiled to himself. Alright. Maybe there was something to this idea after all. 

Thunder rolled in the distance. Crowley looked out his window. It was midday and as dark as dusk. The clouds a heavy greyish-purple. Crowley felt annoyed; Aziraphale had bought him a suit, a  _ real  _ suit, and obviously expected him to be wearing it tonight. He would hate spending the whole night focusing on ensuring not a drop of rain got on it. 

Thunder rolled again, almost masking a knock at the door.

Crowley ignored it. The only people who ever knocked on his door were people trying to sell him something. 

The knock came again, quicker this time. “Crowley?” a muffled voice said. 

Crowley looked up. “Aziraphale?” 

“Yes!” said Aziraphale, still standing on the other side of the door.

“What’re you knocking for?” Crowley called, moving out of his study and into the main room. 

“To make sure you were home of course!” 

“Where the hell else would I be?” Crowley said, “Just come in.” 

The doorknob turned and Aziraphale stepped in, his suit pristine white and perfectly dry, hands clasped in front of him. He smiled when he saw Crowley. 

“Thought you’d be spending the day at the bookshop?” Crowley asked. 

“Yes, the bookshop!” Aziraphale said, “had to close early, I’m afraid. Because of the storm.” 

The corner of Crowley’s mouth twitched up. “The storm,” he said, “Right.”

Aziraphale continued to smile.

Crowley went from the main room, heading for the kitchen. “Wasn’t expecting you till tonight,” he said, “but I’m sure we could find some way to pass the time.” 

“Of course!” Aziraphale called after him. “What did you have in mind?”

***

Aziraphale sat in his bookshop and felt deeply unnerved. 

He had, until that very moment, been feeling the happiest he’d felt in a very long time. That was perhaps part of what bothered him so much, the suddenness of it.

He’d been deep in his own head, reading, but not really focusing. He’d been humming a Christmas carol, as Aziraphale was  _ exactly  _ the kind of person to hum a Christmas carol in late August, while he thought about his evening. 

They’d dine at the Ritz like they often did. Aziraphale had thought to himself that perhaps it was time to find a new favorite restaurant, but it was their little  _ tradition  _ and Aziraphale was quite the traditional man. Afterward, they’d return to Crowley’s flat, light candles, and watch a movie. One of those classic, three-hour black and white romantic movies of which Aziraphale had an assortment in his shop. All on their original film. He could pick one out and take it to Crowley’s tonight. 

He’d felt happy, blissful even. His heart was, almost literally, soaring. He didn’t want to wait, but he knew it would be all the better for it.

Then it all vanished. 

It was replaced with a heavy feeling in his chest. The painful kind that makes it hard to swallow and one’s mouth go sour. 

Something heavy had arrived in London. Something black and thick in the air, like tar.

Thunder rolled outside and Aziraphale jumped at his desk.

A light whisper of rain tapped on his windows. Aziraphale wondered- hoped- that it was only the storm that was unsettling him. Another roll of thunder, another chill down Aziraphale’s spine. 

He stood from his desk, delicately closing his book and placing it on its spot on the shelf. He went around the shop and ensured each window was locked with its curtains drawn. He went to the front door and switched the sign to closed, and locked both the bolt lock and the chain. 

He stepped away from the door, staring at the street, people were pulling up their hoods and coat to block their hair from the rain, huddling together under too-small umbrellas. Aziraphale tried to feel safe in his sanctuary, but that black feeling of  _ wrongness.  _ It was getting closer. 

There was a bright flash outside, followed by a vicious  _ crack  _ of thunder. The shelves shook. A girl outside screamed. The rain came down in big, fat drops, rattling violently against the windows. Somewhere down the street, a car alarm blared.

Aziraphale closed the final curtain over the door window and went back to his desk. 

He sat in his desk-chair and stared out the window. The glass vibrating with the force of the rain on it. Another roll of thunder passed over, not as vicious as the last but loud enough to feel through the floor of his shop.

He was right, it was the storm that was disturbing him so, but it wasn’t the thunder.

Aziraphale reached for his phone as the bell over the door jingled.

“We’re closed!” He said quickly, not even thinking about the fact that he’d locked that door. Locked every lock on it. 

He clicked the phone off the receiver and began to dial the beginning of a familiar number.

“Hey, angel,” Crowley said, standing inside his shop.

Aziraphale paused his dialing, turning in his chair, not standing, the phone still in his hand.

Crowley stood there in his front room, the door clicking shut behind him.

He wore what he always wore. His dark jacket over a black vest and grey undershirt. A thin scarf tied around his neck. His hands were in the pockets of his jeans and his sunglasses were still on, his ginger hair untouched by the rain.

The storm was coming from him.

“Hello, dear,” Aziraphale said, smiling. “Had a bad day have we?” 

Crowley- to call him that only added to the wrongness- began to walk over to him, the dread pouring off of him so thick Aziraphale felt ill.

“Any day I get to see you is a good day, isn’t it?” 

Aziraphale blinked. “Ah, how-” he swallowed, “-sweet.” 

The storm in the shape of Crowley was smiling at him. His sunglasses gleamed. Aziraphale couldn’t see his eyes at all, he realized. He could always see a hint of yellow through the tinted glass, a detail so small he didn’t realize he noticed it. When it was absent, it was all he could see.

Aziraphale clutched the phone tighter in his hand. “Wasn’t I supposed to meet you at your flat tonight?”

Crowley nodded, the kind of nod someone gives when they’ve just been told new, interesting information. “Didn’t want to wait that long.” 

He was standing over him now, he reached out one hand to grip the back of Aziraphale’s chair. Aziraphale flinched away as he did. “Good to- hear.”

Aziraphale was trembling. He didn’t notice, but he was. The storm that was not Crowley noticed and chuckled. 

Aziraphale cleared his throat. “Why don’t you sit down, darling?”

Crowley moved from behind his chair and stood next to him, leaning on Aziraphale’s writing desk, slamming his entire weight on it as he did. An inkwell tipped over and began to leak onto the three-century-old polished wood.

“Oh,” Aziraphale said. His eyes were on the inkwell, watching it spread and bleed into the grains of the desk. “Why don’t you get us some wine, then?”

Crowley said nothing.

Aziraphale pointed behind Crowley, to a small dusty hallway in the back of the shop. “It’s just back there,” he said. “Please, love, it will only take a moment.” 

The storm let out a sound, like a growl. Or a buzz.

It clicked then, what the blackness was. What had come so suddenly over London, and had been so strong, the world had no choice but to form a storm around it to make sense of it.

Hate. Unnatural, hellish hate.

Thunder cracked again.

The storm in the form of Crowley moved off the desk, the wood groaning in relief as he did. “Stay there, angel.”

“Don’t worry, dearest.” Aziraphale gave him a reassuring smile.

The storm went into the small dusty hallway at the back of the shop.

Aziraphale immediately scrambled for the phone.

With trembling fingers, he finished dialing the number. Every ring on the other end was agony. 

There was a click, “Anthony J. Crowley,” Crowley’s voice said. “You know what to do, do it with style.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said in a breathless, trembling whisper.  _ “There’s a demon in my shop.”  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See y'all next Wednesday! 
> 
> Tumblr: heimurinn.tumblr.com


	3. Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley begins to worry about Aziraphale.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the lateish update! I had a short story due this Wednesday so that kinda took this fic's timeslot. Back to Wednesday from here on out!

Crowley could never recall being bored in Aziraphale’s presence. 

The truth is when you’re immortal you see far,  _ far,  _ more uninteresting things than interesting ones. Immortality is  _ painfully  _ dull. Aziraphale made it bearable for Crowley. They could talk for days, unending, while sitting on a rock or a bench or a couch and never run out of things to say. If they weren’t talking, it was because they were instead enjoying being silent in the other’s company. It was a warm, comfortable silence. The kind of peaceful quiet you never want to leave. 

Crowley would have taken boredom over what he felt now. 

“I, uh,” Crowley began, “Bought some champagne. For tonight. We could- start it now?” 

“Ah yes,” Aziraphale said, “I like champagne.”

“Right.” Crowley stood from the couch where they’d been sitting. The television on, a four-o’clock talk show playing to fill the silence.

He went to the liquor cabinet in his kitchen, Aziraphale did not come with him. He did not even look over as he got up. 

The first sign that something was  _ off  _ about Aziraphale happened when he’d knocked on the door. An oddly distant gesture as the door to Crowley’s flat was never locked for Aziraphale and he knew this. 

He found the bottle, the head covered in a thin gold foil. Crowley never really understood why champagne bottles were covered in foil. He had bought this bottle a week ago at a liquor store where he was assured that his wife would fall for him all over again when he brought this out. He stared at it now, something about the gold foil and metallic calligraphy on the bottle in the current atmosphere of the apartment had a bitter melancholy to it. 

He closed the door with his shoulder, the sound of the magnetic click as it shut overwhelmed by a deafening crack of thunder. 

Aziraphale hadn’t touched him since he’d arrived. He’d gotten into the habit of greeting Crowley with a quiet  _ “Hello dear”  _ and a breath of a kiss on the cheek. A tiny chaste touch Crowley feigned annoyance over but had grown rather used to in the past year. He hadn’t done that when he arrived, hadn’t even gotten close enough to brush fingertips. 

Aziraphale sat on Crowley’s couch. He did not turn to look at Crowley as he re-entered the room, and glanced only for a moment when he popped the champagne. He mostly kept his gaze on the window, smiling. 

Crowley handed him a glass. 

“So…” Crowley began, “I should- get dressed. We’ve got to leave soon.” 

They didn’t have to leave soon, but the time away from this couch and this talk show and, in a realization that horrified Crowley, this Aziraphale, would be a bless- a gods- a  _ relief.  _

“Oh,” Aziraphale said, calm as the eye of a hurricane. “We don’t have to leave so soon do we?” 

Crowley’s mouth went dry.

He could not stop his tense mind from running rampant. The knocking, the awkward distance, Aziraphale was doing it to create space. To show Crowley not to come too close anymore because he had sat and thought about the upcoming events and came to the conclusion that it wasn’t what he’d wanted after all. He was leaving him. He was just getting ready to say it. Any moment he would open his mouth and say something like:

_ “Listen, this whole anniversary thing has got me thinking about this. Us. I think we should put an end to it. I’m so sorry, but it’s for the best. We don’t really ‘fit,’ do we? We were better off as we were before. We can still be friends and please, dear, it’s not you, it’s me.”  _

Crowley would nod and say yes, of course he felt the same, he was relieved in fact to hear Aziraphale say it. Aziraphale would believe him, as Crowley was inherently good at lying. He and Aziraphale would then finish their evening a comfortable distance apart until Aziraphale left. Crowley would then crawl into bed and sleep until the sun burnt out and for a while after. 

Aziraphale didn’t say anything.  _ _

“Are you alright?” Crowley hadn’t rejoined Aziraphale on the couch. He instead stood next to it, holding his champagne.

Aziraphale turned to him. “Why wouldn’t I be?” He paused,  his eyes drifted to the side the way people's eyes do when they're thinking of what would be appropriate to say next .  _ “My dear?” _

Crowley stared at him, squinting.

He sat on the couch.

“What were the plans for tonight?” 

“I’m sorry?”

He took a sip from his glass. “You know how I am. Forgetful. Mind reminding me?”

“I- well. Food was involved.”

“Yeah. Food. Where?”

“At.” He was still smiling, but it was tight-lipped. Sweat began to form on his upper lip. “Our favorite human-run eatery.” 

Crowley flicked his eyebrows. Alright. Sure. He took another sip from his glass. A long one. Finishing the bubbling liquid completely. “And after we finish our food at our favorite human-run eatery, what’re we going to do then?”

“We-” he swallowed reflexively. He stared at the empty space behind Crowley’s left ear. “Of course we would…”

The phone rang. The chimes might as well have been thunder. 

Crowley put his glass down and stood up. 

Aziraphale grabbed his wrist. “Where are you going?”

“To see who’s on the phone.”

“They’ll leave a  _ voice mail _ , won’t they? Stay here.”

Crowley pulled, and Aziraphale gripped tighter. It was not a  _ stay with me  _ grip. It was an  _ authoritative  _ grip. A  _ don’t move  _ grip. A kind that left a bracelet of blue bruises around his wrist Crowley never wanted to brag about. 

“Let go of me.”

“Now, Crowley-”

The phone continued to ring.

_ “Let go.”  _

The angel did not let go, he tightened his grip until Crowley’s wrist clicked. 

He hissed. Not in his usual manner. In the manner people do when they’re in sudden pain.  _ “Get off!”  _

From the study, there were three beeps. 

_ “Crowley,”  _ said Aziraphale through the receiver,  _ “there’s a demon in my shop.” _

“No…”

Another voice came, sounding like Crowley if Crowley had swallowed a stomach full of flies. 

_ “Azzziraphale?” _

_ “No!” _

Crowley lunged toward the doorway, forgetting he was being held, and his wrist went from clicking to cracking in the angel’s hand.

From the receiver then came a series of noises which on their own, separately, could be explained if you didn’t know any better.

A rattling sound, not as violent as it could have been.

A muffled, wet sound, like a butcher skewering meat. 

And finally a buzzing sound. It sounded like static. If you didn’t know any better. If you didn’t know what Crowley knew. 

Crowley turned to the thing that looked like Aziraphale, who now looked nothing like Aziraphale, even if it hadn’t had purple eyes. Crowley hissed. Not in his usual manner. He hissed and it was a horrific, feral, evil noise that had no right coming from a human face. 

So it didn’t.

You see, it’s much harder to hold onto the crushed wrist of a creature that does not have one. 

Crowley, scaled and serpentine, fell to the floor with a thud and slithered beneath the sofa. 

From there, he saw the grey business shoes and pant legs of someone who was not Aziraphale. Had never been Aziraphale. Crowley felt embarrassed and angry he had, even for a moment, thought it was Aziraphale. 

There also came, reflecting on the tile of his flat, a silver blade surrounded by the golden light of fire. 

“Really, Gabriel?” Crowley flicked out his tongue. The fire smelled very holy. “Bit medieval don’t you think?”

“Crowley,” Gabriel said in his soft, professionally welcoming tone. “Good to see you.” 

“Been a while, hasn’t it?” Crowley said, darting from beneath the sofa and curling behind the TV stand. “Since I’ve ssseen you?” 

“I think,” Gabriel said as he walked to the TV stand and raised his flaming blade, “I could have gone a while longer.”

The television exploded into sparks and fire, the voice of the talk show host abruptly glitching and dying as the TV flickered black.

Crowley slithered up the wall. “Oh, I feel the sssame.”

He slithered- vertically, across the walls of his flat- into his plant room. Dropping from the wall onto the shelves of plants, their leaves trembling as he moved. 

“Consssorting with the enemy?” Crowley said. “Beelzebub again? Careful, Gabriel, people will _ talk. _ ” 

Crowley hated this shape. The Serpent. He hadn’t been the Serpent in six thousand years. He was Crowley now, a demon still, yes, but not the Serpent. 

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” Gabriel said, entering the room. He moved plants aside with the tip of his blade, burning them to nothing in white-hot fire. Crowley hissed. They had been doing well. No drooping leaves. No yellow roots. Perfect specimens for their peers. Now a pile of ash. 

Perhaps it was the form, perhaps it was the feeling of slithering through plants, or perhaps it was the buzzing, still pouring out of the receiver in the other room. But he could feel it.

He was forgetting.

Crowley was hungry. When was a demon ever hungry? 

“Where’sssss,” he cared about this. Cared deeply. There was a name. “Assszzziraphale?” 

“Oh,” Gabriel sounded happy. “With any luck, he’s in Heaven.” 

“Ssssssssso,” he said. Though it did not sound like a word. “I assssssssssume you’re ssssssssssending me away?”

“You guessed it,” Gabriel said, stopping in the center of the room. “You’re going home, Crowley.” 

Gabriel swiped his blade across the air. All of the plants burst into golden flame. 

Crowley- though if you asked him his name he would not have been able to tell you- made another, horrific hissing noise. As holy heat scorched his face. Black and flaming leaves settled on his scales. For the first time in his existence, he was burned. 

Like a snake smoked out of its burrow he darted up the wall, golden sparks flying off his body. He slithered across the ceiling and hid, coiled in a dark corner of the next room.

It was the study. The voicemail still hadn’t ended.

His scales were burning. All he heard was buzzing. 

There is a tragic truth to existence. Form shapes nature. 

It does things like turn hellhounds into little mongrels that run down rabbit holes and stand on their hind legs. This most would agree, is a good thing.

But it also does things like turn music-loving, sunglasses-wearing Londoners into impossibly large, venomous, cold-blooded creatures. 

Who currently was instinctually frightened for its life. 

Perhaps it could be blamed on the fact that this form had been suppressed inside him for so long and now needed to stretch its coils. Perhaps it was the fact that the sound of flies filled every inch of this room. But Crowley was not Crowley at that moment. He wasn’t even Crawly. He was only “The Serpent.” Only a scared, hungry creature, and there was no Archangel in his flat. There was only another creature, one that could be bitten, crushed, and swallowed like a rat. 

The Serpent that was once called Crowley flicked out its tongue and waited for its rat. 

The rat entered, and at first, it didn’t see its hunter, for the Serpent was clever, and had always been so. The Serpent saw the rat, fixed its eyes on the back of its grey head as it stared ahead of itself at nothing. 

The Serpent moved from its corner, its burned and welted scales crying out as it positioned its body in the crease where wall met ceiling, but it did not stop. Of course, it didn’t. Serpents paid no mind to pain. 

It was perfectly behind the rat now. It could see its neck. If a Serpent could salivate, it would have been.

The rat, finally assessing that it had wandered directly into a Serpent’s lair, turned around.

The Serpent struck.

At that moment, the moment of the strike, the Serpent saw nothing. It heard only the sound of flies and a distant voice calling a name he used to know. It felt a rat squirming in his coils and something snap in its jaws. It felt a white-hot burn on his neck. Then it felt nothing at all. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I killed Crowley's plants everyone :(
> 
> Tumblr: Heimurinn.tumblr.com
> 
> Twitter: @Artyphex
> 
> Thank you to my friend telm_393 for editing this!


	4. Part 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Tadfield, Adam Young watches a very strange news broadcast.

A very odd television broadcast aired across England that night.

The very odd broadcast was presented by a very well dressed, very wide-eyed newscaster who could not seem to believe the words coming out of her own mouth. The broadcast was on two very odd deaths. 

The first death took place at a historic Soho bookdealer, known as A.Z. Fell and Co. a purveyor of used, rare books. This death was undoubtedly a murder and the murder of none other than the bookshop’s owner Mr. A.Z. Fell. Mr. Fell was found with a deep knife wound in his chest, leaning against his desk with the phone off the receiver. Unfortunately, the phone Mr. Fell used was an old fashioned rotary, and the number dialed could not be traced. What made this death especially odd, however, was the presence of a great swarm of flies inside the bookshop, flies so thick one could hardly move through the shop. The body was fresh, even so, there would be no way for such a great number of flies to enter the shop. 

“Police,” the wide-eyed newscaster reported, “Are investigating.” 

The second death took place not a mile from the first and was undoubtedly a murder as well, but this murder was odd in that no person was murdered. The newscaster explained that police had been summoned to a flat in a Soho residential complex after neighbors complained of banging and a strange hissing sound. When police arrived, they discovered no persons in the flat, only the body of a very,  _ very  _ large red and black snake, its head entirely removed. According to local animal experts, the snake did not appear to be of any species currently living on earth, and no owner had claimed the reptile as their own.

“Police,” the stuttering newscaster reported, “Are investigating.” 

When such a news broadcast airs, there are usually only a handful of responses. A quiet shake of the head and a solemn “That’s awful.” A quick flick of the channels as no one is too keen on watching such depressing news over dinner. There are even the few who claim that evil forces are at work with deaths such as this, of which they are usually entirely correct. 

Most of the England households responded in turn, this included a close family of three, and one dog, living in a small village called Tadfield. 

“That’s awful,” said Deirdre Young, shaking her head, looking down at her plate. 

“Hmm,” said Arthur Young, mouth full of food, flicking the channel to a game show. 

Adam Young did not say anything. 

Dog begged for table scraps at his feet.

\---

In Tadfield four children rode out on their bikes long past their bedtimes. 

They called themselves the Them, and all of the Them were out without their parents’ knowledge or consent. As their parents did not miss their own bedtimes. In the city, this would be ill-advised and dangerous, but it was safer here, as this was Tadfield, and many of the locals of Tadfield would tell you that while they loved their village, nothing much really happened in it.

It was safer also because one of the children was the Antichrist. Though no longer officially. 

They now biked down the main Tadfield road, their path barely lit by flashlights placed precariously on handlebars. They were going to the Witch’s House. 

“What’s the Witch supposed to do?” Pepper said.

“Dunno,” Adam said. “She’s the Witch. She might know somethin’.” 

Pepper glared at the road in front of her. “This sounds like End of the World business,” she said. “You said that was over now, Adam. It’s supposed to be over now!” 

They ran over a small bump in the road. Dog whined as he was tossed about in his basket. 

“Besides,” Brian said through a yawn. “All this for an old man and a snake?” 

“He’s not a snake,” Adam said. “Well, he is and he isn’t.” 

“You said they were at the airbase,” began Wensleydale, “but I don’t remember them. What did they do?” 

“They helped.” 

“Seems to me like we did all the work,” Pepper said. 

Adam did not reply. They rode in silence the rest of the way to the Witch’s House.

The Witch’s House did not look like a witch’s house. There was no high pointed roof with a black smoking chimney, or a yellow-eyed cat growling from the gate. The Witch’s House was rather pretty, an ivory-colored cottage buried in jasmine vines that it may have been named after once, but no one remembered that now. Even at night with all the window’s dark, it wasn’t particularly scary, and the Them leaned their bikes against the red brick garden wall. Adam opened the screeching garden gate. 

“We’re just supposed to wake the Witch then?” Pepper said.

“Guess so,” Adam said. 

“Isn’t that a bad idea?” Wensleydale said. 

“Yeah,” agreed Brian. “Waking witches is the kind of thing that gets you cursed.” 

“I reckon if this witch was going to curse us, she’d of done it,” Adam said. “Now come on.” 

Adam went to the little wooden door. His plan was to bang and yell until the Witch woke up. It worked very well on the rest of the Them tonight. But he did not do that, because just as he raised his hand, the light in the cottage went on, and the door opened a crack. Revealing the squinting, disheveled face of a young man.

“You’re not the Witch,” Pepper said.

“We need the Witch,” Wensleydale said.

The man was dressed in a grey t-shirt and checkered sweatpants. His hair was sticking out in all directions, and he squinted like someone who required glasses and was currently not wearing them, though he did not need to see to know who was in front of him. 

Newton Pulsifer said, “Adam?”

“Yes,” responded Adam. “We really do need the Witch.” 

Behind Newt, the Witch was currently tying the cloth belt around her bathrobe. Her hair was slightly less messy, and she squinted like someone who needed glasses, was wearing them, and had just been roused from a deep sleep.

She stuck her head over Newt’s shoulder and looked at the four children and the one dog standing at her doorway well past midnight. She considered saying something like,  _ Why are you out this late?  _ Or,  _ Do your parents know you’re here?  _ Or even,  _ Please go home. It’s the middle of the night and I want to sleep.  _

But she said none of those things. Instead, she gingerly put a hand on Newt’s upper arm, moved him out of the way of the door, and held it open herself.

“Come on.”

The Them ran inside. The Witch closed the door behind them. 

The Witch’s name was Anathema Device, but no one used it in England. Newt called her “Anna.” Tadfield called her “That American.” The Them called her “The Witch.” She liked “Anna” and didn’t mind “The Witch.” It’s what she was after all. 

“Thanks,” Adam said to the Witch. “What can you do if someone’s dead?”

“Dead?” 

“Someone’s dead?” Newt said.

“The funny men from the airbase. Remember them?” Pepper said. 

Newt paused, furrowing his brows. “No.”

“Yes,” Anathema said. Pepper looked surprised. “I’d met them once.”

“You know them?” asked Newt.

“They hit me with their car.” 

“They what?” 

“What can you do?” Adam said. 

The Witch looked at him. Since last summer, the Them would often ask the Witch to join in their games. To use her “witch tricks” to help them to find the treasure of two pounds Adam had hidden in a tree stump, or to defeat the beast who was Brian in his father’s big black coat. Anathema would pick up a stick or light a candle and say some words, and the Them would do the rest. She looked at Adam, standing in her entranceway past midnight, his dog beside him and wagging his tail expectantly, and knew he was not asking her to play a game. 

“Adam…” she said. “I can’t- bring people back.” 

“Rules might be different for them,” Adam said, a matter of factly. “They’re not really ‘people’ people.”

The Witch said nothing.

Adam turned to Newt. “Call the witch-man,” he said. “You know the one right? With the magic finger?” 

“Shadwell?” Newt replied.

“Yeah!”

“Why Shadwell?” 

“Well, he’s with that ghost-lady isn’t he?” Adam said. “Figure a ghost-lady would be helpful. They’re dead.” 

“Adam,” the Witch said. “I think this is all- very sweet but… what do you expect us to  _ do?”  _

Everyone in the room was looking at him now, waiting for him to speak. Adam liked that; when everyone looked at him and waited for him to speak. It made him feel bigger. Older. 

He said, “We have a witch, and we’ll have a ghost-lady, and me. Figure we could all come up with something?” 

His audience exchanged looks between themselves. The way they did when he’d just pitched a weird-sounding game. Dog tilted his head and whined. 

The Witch turned to Newt. “What do you think?”

Newt scratched the back of his head, blinked his blurry eyes, and sighed. “I guess I’ll get on the phone.”

\---

The newly-arrived damned stared out the barred windows of their iron cells and saw the Prince of Hell smile. 

The Prince stalked down the flickering, tight corridor as demons and hounds and chained, bloody damned moved from their path, lowering their heads. The Prince paid them no mind, for their mind was on other things.

“I want to ring him,” Hastur said. “Dangle him over a fire. The green kind. May I, my Lord?” 

“I want to peel off those pretty scales,” Dagon said. “Keep ‘em in my pocket. Think they’d be lucky?” 

“You’ll all get a round,” Beelzebub assured, “once I’m done.” 

Beelzebub never came to this part of Hell; the handling of new arrivals was so far below their other duties that they could never be bothered. However, today they’d arranged for a certain arrival to be prepared here. In order for him to receive the “authentic” experience. 

“He’ll beg for Holy Water,” Hastur said. 

Dagon grimaced. “I hate it when they beg,” she said. “I’ll cut out his tongue if he starts.” 

The cell Beelzebub had reserved was the one at the end of the hall. Exclusively built for traitors. Judas had to be relocated until further notice. 

They arrived in front of the cell, the crowd that had parted to allow them through now gathered behind them. Climbing over each other to get the best view. 

Beelzebub produced a small red key.

Dagon licked her lips.

Hastur laughed.

The door swung open with a deafening metallic screech. 

The inside of the cell was dark, the walls spiked, the floor jagged and rough. If it were occupied, the soul would already be suffering before officially beginning their stay in Hell.

But it was not occupied. 

The hall went silent. 

“Where is he?” Beelzebub said. 

They turned to the crowd. 

_ “Where izzz he?” _

Hastur and Dagon froze. The crowd that had gathered stepped back, some scrambled to disperse. 

“My Lord!” A voice called out. 

A thin demon pushed their way through the crowd. Forcing their way out the front, stumbling to the ground before Beelzebub. 

The demon looked up to them. “There’s um- there’s a call for you.” 

“A call?” 

“Yes,” the demon said. “From uh-” he looked around the room, lowering his voice. “ _ The attic.”  _

Beelzebub said nothing. 

The cell door closed behind them, the lights flickering and hall shuddering as it slammed shut. 

Beelzebub walked back down the hallway, the crowd parting again as they did. Lowering their heads. Keeping their gaze from meeting the Prince’s.

The thin demon let himself relax. A fly landed on his hand. Then his nose. Then his cheek. More came. Until all that was left was a buzzing, writhing pile of red sludge. 

\---

Beelzebub could hear Gabriel’s smile through the phone. 

“Lord Beelzebub,” he said. “You said you had discorporated the angel Aziraphale.”

“Archangel Gabriel,” Beelzebub said. “You said you had discorporated the demon Crowley.” 

“Yes,” Gabriel said, “But I wasn’t  _ lying.”  _ He paused again. “He ruined my suit.” 

“Really?” Beelzebub said. “Crowley is not  _ here.”  _

“What?” 

_ “Crowley izzzn’t here, Gabriel.” _

Through the phone came silence. The only thing ensuring the call hadn’t been disconnected being the sound of Gabriel’s breathing, and the fact that the phones weren’t connected to anything to begin with.

“Neither is Aziraphale.” 

Beelzebub swallowed. Somewhere in their black core, dread began to grow. “He couldn’t have survived.” 

“Nor could have Crowley.” 

The tension in the office grew thick. The dim lights dimmed further until the room was dark.

“My lord?” Hastur said from somewhere in the room.

Beelzebub slammed the phone down. The receiver shattered and sparked beneath their hand. 

“For  _ fuck's  _ sake!” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise! 
> 
> I want to change the days this is uploaded as I don't feel like Wednesday was the best choice. So we'll try Sundays for a bit and see how that goes. 
> 
> I'm getting an idea of how many parts are left, a healthy guess right now would be another four or five, so this whole thing will have eight or nine parts when it's done. Still not sure at the moment so I put it in yet but we ARE around the midpoint (this was never meant to be a long story)
> 
> Hope you enjoyed! 90% of why I wrote this whole fic was so I could have the Them roast A/C
> 
> Tumblr - heimurinn.tumblr.com  
Twitter - @Artyphex


	5. Part 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale and Crowley find themselves in need of help, from all different sorts.

Crowley woke up on a beach.

There are beaches in Hell--crowded beaches, black-sanded with boiling red waters that smell of sulfur and the flesh of the damned. This was not that beach. This beach was empty, and normal enough to almost fool Crowley’s optimistic mind into thinking he was still on Earth and hadn’t had his head sliced off by an Archangel.

Crowley rubbed the back of his neck. He could still feel the echo of the blade. Terrible way to die, beheading. They say you’re conscious for a few seconds after, but if you’re a snake it’s longer. 

It was morning on this beach and a breeze blew through just cold enough to make him shiver. His suit was soaked through to the skin and covered in sand. His hair was plastered to his forehead and his glasses were gone. His wings were out, heavy and wet, with every feather frayed. As he stood, he coughed up cold, salty water.

Several yards from the shoreline was a forest, dense and dark. Behind  _ that  _ was the outline of a grey mountain. It was hazy in the distance, the peak vanishing into the clouds. 

To either side of him was white beach, laid out endlessly. The sea stretched out uninterrupted until it met the horizon. The sun had risen no higher. 

“Hello?” he said. His voice was rough. He cleared his throat, and the taste of salt covered his tongue.

He made his way toward the forest, the sand getting deeper and denser as he did. His shoes were entirely ruined, water seeping out of them with every step. Crowley groaned. 

From the treeline, several sets of eyes stared at Crowley. 

“Hey!” He coughed again. “Mind, uh…”

The eyes weren’t blinking. Crowley couldn’t tell what colors they were, or what they belonged to. 

“Where am I?” 

_ “Hello!”  _

Crowley jumped.

The voice was distant, and it hadn’t come from behind the trees. Crowley looked down the length of the beach. Nothing. Just a neverending stretch of water and sand and trees. 

_ “Anyone there?” it called _ again. No closer, but it seemed to come from a different direction.

The voice was familiar. Crowley would recognize it even if he were deaf, but it was so odd, he wondered if he wasn’t really hearing it. He responded with his own,  _ “Hello!”  _

There was a pause, Crowley’s call fading into the dawn air. 

Then, finally, a clarification.  _ “Crowley?”  _

“Azira--!” If his wings weren’t so ruined he would have flown. “Yes! Where are you?” 

_ “I’m…by the water!”  _ The voice now seemed to be coming from behind him. 

Crowley turned around, the sunrise stained the sea yellow. “So am I! Where?” 

_ “Here!”  _ Aziraphale’s calls were faint, coming from every and no place at all.

He ran down the beach, every part of it looked empty. No angel. Just eyes staring from the treeline. “I don’t see you!” 

_ “Crowley?”  _

“I’m _ here!”  _

All that answered was the sound of his feet rushing through sand and the gentle rush of small waves crashing on the beach. 

“Angel?” 

His run slowed into a stumbling stop. A cold wind blew past him, roaring in his ears. His skin pricked with icy needles. 

“Aziraphale?”

In the treeline, more colorless eyes had gathered to watch. 

_ “Aziraphale!” _

The eyes blinked. 

_ “Shit!” _

He kicked at the beach and sent up a violent, splash of sand that blew into his face. He dropped to his knees, curled in on himself so far he could feel the ground brush his forehead. He dug his fingers deep into the sand and shuttered with a sob. 

Perhaps he  _ was  _ in Hell after all. It was prettier than any part he’d ever seen but that could be a part of it. Damned to chase the voice of his angel forever under a lovers’ sunrise. Oh, that  _ was  _ clever. Perhaps after a few thousand years, he’d grow mad enough to appreciate the irony. 

Something touched his wing. Light as a breeze. He looked up. There was no hope in his heart to see an angel, and he didn’t. He saw a child-sized grey shape, curiously investigating the ruined feathers of his wings. 

_ “Hey!”  _ He snatched the wing back, with enough force to create a gust of wind as it cut through the air. The specter recoiled as if it had been hurt, and bolted back into the treeline like a frightened animal. 

Some of the colorless eyes vanished, others dimmed, and a very few stayed where they were, but now looked judgmental. Judging him as much as blank eyes could. 

They weren’t demons, Crowley decided. He’d know if they were demons. There’d be more snickering, more efforts to make him miserable. Aziraphale’s voice, lost somewhere down the beach, had been torturous, but if this were truly Hell, there would have been more. Maybe visions of Aziraphale in the water. His shape on the beach, moving away from him as he got closer. Hell wasn’t known for being  _ subtle _ . No, this place wasn’t  _ kind,  _ but it wasn’t Hell. It wasn’t maliciously unkind, it was unkind in the way the world was. Simply uncaring. Neutral. 

This  _ wasn’t  _ the world. He wasn’t alive, and he didn’t know what the things behind the trees were. 

“You humans?” he asked. 

None of them answered. Crowley felt marginally embarrassed, wondering if he’d asked a rude question, akin to asking a woman if she was pregnant. 

Crowley had never seen a dead human before, at least, not like this. He knew they had souls, he knew they went somewhere, but he’d never been responsible for them. He always figured they’d look- more human. 

“Look I’m a little on edge okay? Bad day. Never been here before.”

From the treeline, the little grey specter peeked out. 

“Hey there…” Crowley said. 

It crept forward, slowly. Like a fawn ready to run again at any moment. Crowley stayed as still as he could, trying not to make a further arse of himself. 

It moved towards his wings. Crowley gently extended one of them, resting it on the beach. He could fully take in the damage now. Disastrous. He grimaced at the thought of repairing them. 

“They’re prettier than this, usually,” he promised. 

The little specter went to the first feather, the largest one. Caked with sand, the barbs sticking every which way. It ran its hands- or what Crowley assumed were hands- down the feather, silently combing the grains out. It pinched the barbs together, continuing until it looked not perfect, but presentable. 

Once it finished, it turned towards Crowley, tilting its little head. Awaiting his verdict. 

Crowley smiled. “Saves me the trouble of starting.” 

It blinked, satisfied. 

From the treeline came the rest. 

They  _ were  _ humans. Formally anyway, some of them even looked it. He could tell how old they were. The newest ones you might wave at on the street. The older ones, the ones who Crowley assumed had forgotten their names, looked more like a person in the mind of someone who has only had the concept of people explained to them. The very oldest, like the tiny grey specter, could have been the inspiration for the ghost under a sheet.

One of them- a newer one, with fair blonde hair- grabbed his upper arm, the touch was barely felt. Crowley stood.

All the souls gathered around him and started, as best they could, to guide him in one direction down the beach. They surrounded him entirely, if he stumbled, or stepped at all off the path they moved in, they would push him- as much as they could- back into place. 

“So uh,” Crowley began. “This my welcome party, then?” 

The souls said nothing.

The sun rose no higher. 

***

Anathema Device wasn’t sure why she’d expected her life to be normal after the world ended. 

Perhaps “normal” is too strong a word. She’d expected it to be over. Not her life entirely, just the life she had before. The prophecies and preparation and anything to do with devils or angels or God, would all be done with after Armageddon one way or another. She was learning now that if you spend a good part of your life meddling in those affairs, they will find you again. They could hardly be blamed in retrospect, it’s not like they had many people left to bother anymore.

The former Antichrist and his friends sat around her kitchen table. Newt had awkwardly made them each tea. The former Antichrist and his friends, all being children, had left it entirely untouched. No one said anything. Brian, Pepper, Wensleydale, and Dog were asleep. 

“How long till they get here?” Adam asked. 

“Not sure,” Newt responded. “Is there a time limit?” 

“Guess not,” Adam said. “Once you’re dead, you’re dead.” He looked sad as he said it. Leaning his cheek on his hand. Anathema could tell he too, was seconds away from dozing off. 

“Adam,” Anathema began. “Why do you… ” she paused, trying to word her question in a way that did not sound mean. “...care so much?”

Adam looked down into his tea. Filled to the brim and cold. “Guess it don’t feel fair,” he said. “They’re like me, kind of. Put here for a nasty reason they didn’t pick. I don’t like that I get to live how I want and they don’t.” 

“It’s not your fault.” Anathema sighed. She knelt down by his chair. “You’re still a kid.” 

“I know,” he said. “I  _ want  _ to help. It feels good.” 

Anathema smiled, and patted his arm. She wondered what it meant for the world that the Antichrist might be the last truly good person in it. She figured it had to be positive, all things considered.

From beneath the table, Dog erupted into yapping barks. 

Each member of the Them woke with a start. Pepper said a word she shouldn’t know as she spilled her tea on herself, Wensleydale scrambled for his glasses, and Brian yawned, put his hands over his ears, and laid his head back on the table. 

Dog scrambled toward the front door, little claws clicking on the floor. He jumped and pawed and barked at the door as someone from the other side pounded on it. 

“Who is it?” Pepper groaned, wiping cold tea off her legs. 

The door pounded again. Dog barked louder. _ “Private Pulsifer!” _ said a hefty voice through the wood.  _ “Where are the demons you speak of?”  _

“Good,” said Adam. “It’s the witch-man.” 

Newt stood, sighed, and opened the front door. 

In came Sergeant Shadwell, and suddenly the Witch’s House felt smaller. He looked exactly the same as the last time they’d all been together, the jacket, the hat, and even the gun. 

He looked around the room, then turned to Newt. “You said there were demons!” Dog barked up at his leg. “Get off me, you little devil!”

From behind him came a woman in a bright dress. Her hair was an unnatural brassy orange. She smiled as she entered, and she went straight for Anathema. 

“Anathema!” Madam Tracy said, embracing her. “How’s it been with Newt? Is he good to you?”

“‘Course he’s good to her,” Adam said. “Never seen him do anything bad.” 

“He’s no fun in games at all, _ ”  _ Wensleydale said. 

Madam Tracy gave them a smile similar to the smile you give a puppy. Anathema laughed nervously. Newt may have opened his mouth to defend himself but nothing came out other than directionless stammering.

Dog still yapped away, the floors creaked from too many people walking on them, and in the kitchen, Brian groaned.

“We’re all here now,” said Adam. 

The room fell silent. Brian sighed, and then snored. 

“So,” Madam Tracy said, “What’s this all about?” 

“Remember the men from the airbase?” Adam said. “One of them was in you, for a bit.” 

“One of them was  _ what?”  _ Shadwell said. 

“Mr. Aziraphale!” Madam Tracy said. “Of course I remember! Such a nice man…”

“He’s dead.” 

Madam Tracy blinked. “What?” 

“I think I can help him,” Adam said, “I think you can talk to him. You’ve talked to him before haven’t you?” 

“Wait, these are the demons?” Shadwell turned to Newt. “We’re  _ rescuing  _ demons?”

“One demon?” said Newt. 

“Oh, Adam,” Madam Tracy said. “I don’t think it  _ works  _ the other way ‘round.” 

“That’s why she’s here,” Adam said, gesturing to Anathema. “And me. I can still make things happen. Littler things, but they’re still things.” 

“What about us?” Pepper said. “Why are  _ we  _ here?” 

What Adam said next he said like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “You were all at the airbase and the world didn’t end. You ought to be here. One of them good omens.” 

They all stood in the kitchen for a moment. Looking at each other, waiting for one of them to say what they all wanted to. 

“Well then,” Madam Tracy said. “Let’s get to it.” 

***

The souls had taken Crowley into the forest. They were going up.

He could still see, if he looked through the trees just right, the blue of the water, but the beach was far behind him and he did not miss it. 

He did not know how long he’d been walking. The sun had risen no higher, and the forest was draped in long black shadows that rippled and warped out of the corner of his eye. 

The souls were fascinated with him. Looking at his face, his hair, his eyes. Several of them were touching his wings as they walked. They combed out sand, straightened feathers, and Crowley didn’t stop them. He figured they could use the entertainment. Everyone needed something to do with their hands. Plus, they were saving him time. Though the growing pit of dread in his stomach told him time was something he was going to have a lot of, if the sun didn’t start moving soon.

“It always like this?” Crowley asked and was answered with silence. He wondered if they could understand him, or hear him. 

Eventually, in that forest filled with rippling shadows, Crowley was brought to the top of a hill, and he was left there.

It was as if the souls had never been, they did not vanish, they did not fly away, they just simply  _ weren’t.  _ Crowley looked around, he was at the peak of a hill in a clearing of sorts, not as many trees. He could see the sea below him, blinding in the sunrise as he could see the mountain above him, the peak buried in swirling clouds. 

Then, he heard a voice coming up the same hill. Nearing him. 

_ “Well you all are rather kind, aren’t you? Watch your step there-! ah, right. Guess it doesn’t matter too much anymore.”  _

He turned around.

There, coming up the hill, surrounded by his own crowd of souls who were equally fascinated with him, combing sand out of his ruined white wings, was an angel. 

If this place hadn’t already been unmoving, it would have stopped. As Crowley looked upon Aziraphale, somewhere a world stopped. 

“Aziraphale?” Crowley said. Unsure and unwilling to make the same mistake twice. 

Aziraphale stopped, eyes darting to the top of the hill where Crowley stood. A cold breeze blew between them, and the souls around Aziraphale had gone. 

Then Crowley was on his back in the grass. 

His back ached as it crashed into the cold earth, but he did not feel it. He had his arms wrapped around his angel, his hands tangled in his hair. Crowley’s wings were over him, wrapped around him, cocooning him like he was his own little secret and no one could touch him. 

Aziraphale kissed his cheeks and jaw, chin and neck. He kissed his forehead and the corners of his mouth and all the while he whispered  _ “Crowley, it’s me. Darling, it’s me. It’s  _ you _ .”  _

Aziraphale sat up, Crowley’s wings falling open to allow it. Laying flat on the grass. He stared down at him, the sun shining through his pale blonde curls and for a moment Crowley could have stayed there. Forever. For a moment he was on earth and they were alive and they were lovers, stupid and happy and human like everybody else.  _ _

“So,” Aziraphale said, sniffling. “You didn’t get my message I take it?” 

And then they were an angel and a demon. 

“Nah, I did,” said Crowley. “Fucked it up. Sorry, angel.” 

Aziraphale nodded and then cupped Crowley’s cheek. Crowley put his hand over his, turning his head to press a silent kiss on his palm. Closing his eyes tight. Aziraphale leaned down and kissed him softly on the lips before pressing his forehead to his. 

It became a mixed celebration. Aziraphale was here, he wasn’t alone, but that meant Aziraphale was just as dead. Heaven and Hell had gotten them both. They’d lost. 

Aziraphale rested his head on Crowley’s chest, his own wings settled on top of his, he was staring out towards the sea, he did not squint at the light. “Where are we, Crowley?” 

Or, it struck Crowley. Perhaps they hadn’t lost. Not yet. 

They were  _ dead,  _ yes, but they couldn’t have been sent here on purpose. They were together, and that was the biggest clue. Heaven and Hell would not have allowed them to stay together. Whatever punishment they could think up, it would be bearable if they were together. 

Crowley stared toward the mountain. “I don’t know.” 

From their feet came a voice. They could hear the smile in it. “You’re in a good spot.” 

They looked down, and there, standing at their feet, were an Archangel and a Prince of Hell, looking down on them with the satisfaction of schoolyard children catching their peers doing something that will get them in great, great trouble. 

They scrambled off of each other and struggled to their feet. Crowley’s face burned, less from embarrassment and more from anger at having his intimate moment interrupted.

Gabriel raised his eyebrows in excitement, holding out his arms to display his surroundings. “Welcome to Purgatory!” 

Aziraphale wiped off his jacket, straightening his clothes. They were as damp as Crowley’s and blade of grass stuck to the unnaturally white overcoat. “Purgatory?” 

“Yes!” Gabriel clasped his hands in front of him. 

Aziraphale and Crowley said nothing.

“No, this is good!” Gabriel said. “See, we talked about it and this is good!” He gestured between himself and Beelzebub. “For us.”

“You got two choices,” Beelzebub finally interjected. “Up or down. Or stay here.” 

“Forever!” Gabriel looked, for possibly the first time, genuinely excited. 

There was another pause, as Aziraphale and Crowley tried very hard to understand: They hadn’t gone to Heaven, and they hadn’t gone to Hell.

“Right,” began Crowley, his voice hushed and distant. “To start, that’s three choices.” 

“Oh for-!” Aziraphale began. “Just send us  _ home!”  _

“We tried that,” said Beelzebub.

“No,” Aziraphale had lost his temper. “Send me back to my shop. Send  _ him  _ back to his plants.” There were tears brimming in his eyes. They were not sad tears. “It’s done. We went to  _ Purgatory!”  _

Silently, Crowley squeezed the angel’s shoulder. Aziraphale placed a hand over his in response. 

“You can have your silly contest over who’s on top! All we want is earth! That’s it!” Crowley said. “What are you  _ so  _ afraid of?” 

“Are you afraid we’re right?” Aziraphale’s eyes were glittering and his lip quivered, but he held himself tall. Gripping Crowley’s hand with white-knuckles. 

“You aren’t going back to earth,” Beelzebub said. 

“Up or down,” Gabriel said. “Or stay right where you are.” 

Then, they were gone. Purgatory blew another cold wind over the hill, like a sigh of relief. 

Aziraphale buried his face into Crowley’s shoulder, gripping at his coat with trembling hands. Crowley wrapped his arms around him, pressed their foreheads together, and rubbed his hand up and down Aziraphale’s back.. Crowley’s eyes were open and staring at the spot where Beelzebub and Gabriel had been. He thought it was only Aziraphale who was shaking. 

The souls of Purgatory watched from behind the trees. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! School's been kicking my ass. 
> 
> Four more chapters left, maybe three, but I believe in my heart that it'll be four! 
> 
> This was once gonna be only 5 parts what the fuck 
> 
> Tumblr - heimurinn.tumblr.com  
Twitter - @Artyphex

**Author's Note:**

> THIS is the fic I plotted whilst post-op and high as balls. It's been edited to make sense, but major plot points will stay the same. 
> 
> Should be fun! The chapters after this will be SIGNIFICANTLY longer but there will not be many chapters. Once I hit chapters 3/4 I'll know how many chapters are left. I want to update every Wednesday, though I may have to do every other Wednesday a few times because I AM a full-time student trying to graduate taking 18 credits and will soon be trying to juggle 3 multichapter works so please be patient. The next chapter WILL be coming out next Wednesday as it is about 50-60% finished at this point in time. 
> 
> Very excited for what's to come with this fic! I want to note that this fic would not exist without this amazing art by Speremint on tumblr! https://speremint.tumblr.com/post/185886122275/%F0%9D%92%BE%F0%9D%93%8C%F0%9D%91%9C%F0%9D%93%83%F0%9D%93%89%F0%9D%92%BD%F0%9D%91%92%F0%9D%93%88%F0%9D%92%BE%F0%9D%93%89%F0%9D%92%B6%F0%9D%93%89%F0%9D%91%92%F0%9D%92%B7%F0%9D%92%BE%F0%9D%93%89%F0%9D%92%B8%F0%9D%92%BD%F0%9D%93%85%F0%9D%93%83%F0%9D%91%94-prequel-what-if-gabriel
> 
> While this fic will NOT have quite the same tone as that drawing, it is what originally inspired it, so I wanted to shout it out. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy!


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